


You're my best friend

by Sys



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: D/s, Established Relationship, F/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: Just a little dose of insanity? You know I fail at summaries.





	You're my best friend

**Author's Note:**

> You may or may not already know that one of my favorite songs for these two is "You're my best friend" by Queen. It was high time to finally name a story after it. :) I'm half-tempted to apologize for this bout of insanity, but I'm not sorry enough to make it stick. <3

She’s pondering Sherlock’s demise when her bedroom door opens once more. 

“Is there anything you require before...?” 

“Your head on a plate?”

He looks mildly _amused_. Clearly his imminent death does not worry him.

“I was planning to spend some quality time on the internet...” 

Trolling forums, most likely.

Glowering at him just makes it worse. He’s positively bouncy with glee. And it’s all because of that damned bomb. Typical Sherlock behavior... first true terror, searching her over and over and over again for any signs of the tiniest scratch. Now this crazy new scheme he’s come up with... she should’ve _known_ not to take that bet.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Watson.” His tone is giddy, all kid on a sugar rush, not charming at all in a man she might want to have sex with again one day. “Do you want a recap of your tasks?”

“I don’t need a bloody recap, Sherlock. _Just go._”

He manages to sneak the slightest hint of reproach into his eyes, reminding her more of her teacher and less of her partner. Let alone... that’s really neither here nor there. She finally manages a glare that gets him out of her hair so she can start on the cuffs. 

“It’s a _nice_ shade of blue, Watson.” She hears him crooning through the closed door. He’s leaning against it, she can tell. “It would...”

“SHERLOCK!” It takes her a split second to realize her mistake when he barges back in, wide-eyed and ready to stop the games. “Leave. Now.”

She listens until she can hear him take the stairs down to the kitchen. 

_Nice shade of blue_. 

If the paint’s not as easy to wash off as he promised she’ll look like a smurf. That’s if she fails, which she won’t. But her covers might suffer and that’s annoying enough. She tries to grasp the conveniently close hair pin on the nightstand, but of course it’s _just_ out of reach. He probably calculated her arm’s reach when she stretches for this. Two hours. Unless he thought changing the rules adds to the realism. Could be a _real_ bomb after all, not just something he’s had Stephen put together.

She stretches her fingers but it’s no use. He wouldn’t do that though. Grant her no means of picking this particular set. And there’s nothing on her body or inside her bed that would help. _Always good to think on your feet_ she remembers his cheerful bubbling from last night, when he laid out the plan for her. Her toes _can_ reach the pin. It’s just uncomfortable to an extent he probably didn’t plan.

“You’ll pay for this,” she whispers before she remembers she’s allowed him to place a camera so he can step in if something goes wrong beyond her possibly being covered in paint. 

She offers her toe’s prize to her fingers, which would be so much easier if at least her feet weren’t tied up. But of course she’s not training to disarm a bomb. She’s training to avoid being turned into Smurfette by the least sane of Bond villains. 

Actually getting the hair pin into the right position’s even more of a hassle and she drops it when the damned phone goes off. It’s a cheerful tune. Probably the title melody to the smurfs, given Sherlock’s attention to stupid details. Ever since Gr@est from Everyone exposed him to this kid show some months ago he’s been looking for a way to make use of knowledge he can’t seem ban from his attic.

The ringing means she’s wasted half an hour already, what with all those constant interruptions because he can’t make up his mind between giddily enjoying the tasks she needs to fulfill and going sick with worry that she might be uncomfortable. There’s a reason he doesn’t get to tie her to the bed at night. Images of _Sherlock_ tied to her bed and going half-mad with begging for her touch come unbidden. Last thing she needs is another distraction. But it’s difficult to ignore. He’s stunning when he gives up all pretense for her.

Retrieving the hair pin from the bed’s much easier, and it’s actually helpful in that she’s got the right angle, this time. Even if it’s still an art, picking cuffs. Requires more skill than picking a lock. She half-remembers hearing a key. Hoping that he wouldn’t makes room for realizing that of course he would. Another obstacle, but first things first. A satisfying click informs her that at least she’s getting somewhere. It’s a matter of minutes, if that. 

It’s only when the cuffs finally hit the ground that she realizes that she could’ve wriggled out of the rope securing her body to the bed with her wrists and ankles still tied. Should’ve tried that first. Oh he would’ve loved pointing that out to her if she’d failed to escape. First rule’s to try and escape, not to deal with minor annoyances. But in a scenario where leaving might ruin her sheets... what if he actually expects her to just leave the room as soon as she can? Sheets be damned? 

Clearly she’s not annoyed enough if she still worries about his opinion as the one who taught her the ropes.

The zip tie around her ankles is another obstacle. Of course there’s no conveniently close knife or scissors. But with her body and hands free to move there’s always the kitchen as a last resort if he remembered to remove the nail clippers from the bathroom. After picking the lock (perhaps fifty seconds?), skipping to the bathroom’s something else he’ll have to pay for. Thankfully the clippers are in place though. Skipping down the stairs...

Next task should be to unblock the phone, which is ringing again from her bedroom. An hour? Already? But she’ll need something to climb on to reach the bomb where it’s securely tied to the ceiling. So she might as well gather something to aid her climb. She roots for one of the chairs from the parlor because they’re easier to carry than the ones from the media room. Places it on the bed. And considers climbing on top to get an overview before bothering with the damned phone. 

But switching off that stupid ring tone...

“Remember the statistics,” he’d said. So birthdays it is. Moriaty’s? That’s not something she’ll just figure out in under an hour, not with only three tries before a proper lockdown. He’d have “accidentally” dropped that in a conversation in the past few days if she needed it. She tries Sherlock’s before it hits her. Partner’s birthday’s the favorite, isn’t it? Hers doesn’t work though...

That’s until she goes for day and month, not year. 

She dials down the phone’s volume before focusing on the instructions. Homemade devices are more of a mess if Sherlock’s attempts at disarming them are anything to go by. It’ll be tricky, removing the lid without upsetting the motion trigger. But after that it’s just a matter of cutting a mess of wires in the correct order. Crazy Bond Villains leave riddles in the form of math equations that result in numbers that respond to letters in the alphabet which in turn help spell out the names of colors. 

That’s something to worry about _after_ the lid’s safely off. 

The chair on top her bed isn’t the best working position. It’s only just high enough to reach the bomb and keeping her balance while trying to do something almost equaling heart surgery in finesse...

Arms close around her legs and she almost falls. 

“_What are you doing_?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

She glares at him, but his formerly jovial smile’s made way for a frown as he lets go and offers her his hands because apparently she needs help to get off the chair safely.

“Are you trying to break your neck?”

“You’re the one who startled me while I was...”

“You put a chair on top your bed to reach a delicate device you’d have to focus your attention on. There’s a _ladder_ in the basement, remember?”

“Yeah, because standing on a ladder’s so much safer.”

“Than placing a chair on top of a bed? Yes it is.” He puts a ten figure code into a makeshift remote control to switch off the bomb, looking royally pissed. “If a bomb won’t kill you, mere furniture might. Do you remember the statistics of people...”

“This was your idea.”

He points to the chair on the bed and his mouth opens but he fails to speak, just keeps pointing at the chair until he finally grabs it and stalks off, down the stairs. She follows mostly to ensure he won’t chop it to pieces because it _might_’ve hurt her. The original bomb’s in smithereens that have nothing to do with the blast.

Thankfully he just puts the chair back in the parlor. Then turns to study her. “Don’t ever do something that stupid again.”

“I was _fine_.”

“You could have...” He shakes his head, turns to trudge to the kitchen. “Dinner’s in ten,” he informs her by the time he reaches the stairs.

She follows him to head into the basement and fetch the ladder, removes the defused bomb from her ceiling. And acknowledges, to herself, that she should have remembered the stupid ladder. They used it to switch out a couple of bulbs sometime in the last couple of months.

“That bomb could’ve killed you, too,” she says when she rejoins him for dinner. “We talked about this.”

“I know.”

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me safe. I can...”

“I _can’t_ lose you, Watson.”

He looks up at her and the fear in his eyes makes her drop her fork. 

“It probably would’ve finished us _both_.” That thought shouldn’t cheer him. She places her hand over his. “Promise me you won’t do anything idiotic if something happens to me.”

He stares at her.

“I’m serious.”

“Me? Like what...?”

The list’s so stupidly long it takes her breath away. “Shutting out our friends. Torturing my killer to death as if that’d solve anything. Go...”

“I get your point.”

“Stand up.”

He studies her listlessly, but doesn’t argue. Withdraws his hand and stands as she does. She places her hand above his heart and he smiles slightly at the accuracy, if not the gesture. It’s clear that he takes care, placing his own hand with the same accuracy if not with the same ease. He whispers his promises and she decides to let it pass that he’ll protect her with every means at his disposal, mostly because she’d defend him from lions and tigers and bears, too, if it proved necessary, so she promises the same.

“We should finish that,” she says to reduce the awkwardness of the moment. He glances at the food that’s getting cold on the table and nods, unenthusiastically. 

It’s much later when she’s beckoned him into her bed that she feels his arm lying leisurely across her waist as he leans in. “Do you want to try again, tomorrow?”

“What?”

“The bomb. Would you like another go?”

“Sherlock...”

“I interrupted you before you could finish.”

“There’s other ways to remind you not to do that again.” She smiles at him pointedly.

The excited horror in his eyes tells her that they’re on the same wavelength. 

“Now?”

She shakes her head. His eyes are too beautiful, up close. It’ll take focus, going through with that particular plan. More than she’s willing to muster tonight. Too many things to consider at once and she could slip up. Tell him that he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her. And how would they ever live that down?

He responds to the simplest touch of her fingers. Lies back and lets her straddle him. Not that they’ll have sex, probably. But she does like him there as she bends down to find his lips. Draws her tongue against them and feels welcomed inside. He’s fierce tonight. Eager. Needing this confirmation that he’s hers, always, perhaps more than she does. His hands travel up her sides and back down and she squirms. He _knows_ she’s ticklish. But his mouth is warm and wet and too comfortable to break the kiss and tell him off.

Swatting his hands works. 

They come to rest peacefully on her thighs as she moves to give him room to sit up. It’s easier, after a while, not bending down to kiss him. And she’ll need his mouth on her neck, soon enough. 

“May I?” He murmurs as he trails kisses to her neck. But that’s not what he’s asking about. It’s the fingers inching closer to the inner side of her thigh.

“Mhm.” 

So sex after all. They don’t use fingers as a main act.

He’s so focused he’s startled her the first time they did this. It takes him embarrassingly little time to coax her body into accepting his attentions over her commands to remain still. She’s whispered a name here and there. Asked for, sometimes demanded, more. Panted and moaned, too. But shouting....? Voicing her pleasure at any length and volume? That’s easier with him. He’s a gentleman about their connection in ways she would never have thought possible. Not a word. To anyone.

Removing their underpants is always complicated if they didn’t make up their mind about it initially. But it works, with a bit of a trial and error. Without having to allow him to get up.

She takes him inside and they find their rhythm. It’s a good thing that his mouth’s too occupied for him to babble as he can’t stop talking. About anything from praising her brilliance -or his own-, particularly after a case recap. To medical history facts that prevented wrong accusations from going to court. 

They’ve managed to come together, once, but it doesn’t surprise or worry her that she needs to wait for him again as she rides out the afterglow. He’s too focused on her needs, too eager to please. And he’d stop right now if she asked him to, she’s sure of that. But he’s far too appealing when he’s sated. When everything about him is calm and his gaze is untroubled for a little while. She could have sex with him just to watch him in that moment. When he’ll hold still as she caresses him. And won’t say anything stupid to remind her that while she loves him, he’s also terribly annoying.

He doesn’t flee her side when they’re done. She’s expected that after the first time. But he’s pointed out that watching her sleep is almost as good as waking her in the morning. Not that she can complain... _he_ is adorable when he’s asleep. She just rarely gets to witness it. And of course he will leave her side eventually, so he can prepare a tray of breakfast that’s no more or less special than anything he’d bring his best friend.


End file.
